The Poppy Field- A WW1 Anthology
by anon-lily
Summary: From the assassination of Franz Ferdinand to the Christmas Truce to the horrors of the frontline; the First World War has made a profound impact on the world. This is a collection of snapshots throughout the war, documenting the struggles of our favourite characters, as well as highlighting little-known areas of the war.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, that belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

 **Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to The Poppy Field, my first Fan Fiction. This will be a series of short stories in a semi-chronological order about different parts of the First World War and what our favourite personifications may have been doing at the time, so there will be small jumps in time from one chapter to the next. I do apologise if I do not update regularly update on this, as research and other parts of life tend to slow down the writing process.**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this!**

 **~ Anonymous Lily**

 **Here are my names for some of the characters that do not have official names or even exist as characters: [This has been edited because I did some research and some of the names did not exist.]  
** **Liechtenstein- Erika Vogel  
** **Slovakia- Konrad Tesarik  
** **Czech- Matylda Horacek  
** **Serbia- Teodor Loncar  
** **Belgium- Adie Mogens  
** **Australia- Jett Wilson  
** **New Zealand- Bailey Roberts  
** **India- Inderpal Gupta  
** **South Africa- Lesedi Annandale**

* * *

Chapter One- A Spark in the Tinderbox

 _Vienna, Austro-Hungarian Empire, June 29_ _th_ _1914._

It was the 28th of June in Sarajevo, Bosnia, in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that the prosperous and fragile peace in Europe first began to collapse, with an assassination that changed history and set the course for much worse things to come...

They were not quite sure what, but every personification in the empire knew that something very bad had happened. It was only on the day after the event that they had found out what had happened in detail.

The newspaper had arrived this morning, having been slipped through the letterbox just as Roderich was having breakfast. It was Erika who had picked it up first, emitting a soft, squeaking gasp, like a startled mouse, when she noticed what the words were saying.

He had watched all of the other Nations crowd around the shocked Liechtensteiner to look at the article over her shoulder. It had taken several tries to get them to stop reading and begin their duties, but he still heard them talk about it throughout the day in hurried whispers and sly glances.

It was now the afternoon. Erika had just finished her weekly music practice and was now finishing her embroidery in her bedroom. Roderich had moved from the music room to his study, which glowed warmly in the afternoon sun, his various antiques refracting the light into shapes on the dark, rich wallpaper. The newspaper, wrinkled from the Austrian's gloved grip, appeared to have faded from use, but still had enough ink to announce its bad tidings:

 _The Austrian Archduke, Franz Ferdinand, is dead._

 _His Majesty was shot by a young Bosnian Serb named Gravrilo Princip yesterday afternoon, while travelling with his wife, the Duchess Sophie of Hohenberg, in Sarajevo. The culprit is now in custody._

Roderich slammed the newspaper down on the table in an attempt to control himself. The news headline was echoing in his head, taunting him with its existence.

 _How could this happen? In this civilized age of prosperity, how can people ruthlessly kill a member of the Imperial family? Kill an heir to the throne?_

His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of his companion, Erzsébet Hedevary, who had just arrived back from a meeting in Hungary. She clutched a copy of the same newspaper, the thin paper crunched up from her iron grip.

"I heard on the way back from the post office." she explained, "Oddly, no one seems upset by their deaths in the Hungarian court, or in the town."

Roderich scoffed, "Well, they were not the most popular in the Austrian court, what with the Archduke being married to a Bohemian aristocrat with no royal blood."

He paused, glancing at the newspaper again before continuing in a quieter tone, "If anything, I feel... enraged that such an atrocity would occur in this civilized time! It... something has to be done about this, we cannot let Serbia trigger any uprising. If this carries on, the Bosnians will rebel, then the Slovaks and Slovenes will too... It is inevitable if it is not stopped now."

Erzsébet gave a questioning look. "They were rebelling before the Serbian problem, so was I. But it was sorted out and they are less unruly now."

From the corner of her eye, Erzsébet noticed that one of the aforementioned Nations were eavesdropping on their conversation. She could see the face of Matylda Horacek, the Czech personification, glancing at her and putting a coal-stained finger to her lips. Short hair flopped over her face and blue eyes flickered back and forth.

She fixed her with a cold stare and hissed, "Get out, this is not your business." The eavesdropper disappeared in a flash from the door frame. Roderich merely turned around to face where they once were, scowling at her shadow.

"You see, Erzsébet, they have no respect for my authority or yours... and now they are only going to get bolder." he stated, "No amount of money or diplomacy will stop them now, thanks to those Serbs trying to shatter the peace that the empire brings to the Balkans."

"Do not talk like that, we still have control over them." she said, putting a hand on the Austrian's shoulder, and fixing him with a determined stare, "...It is just a matter of demonstrating it. We are perfectly capable of restoring the balance of power and disciplining Serbia, the rest of them as well!"

%&%

"...restoring the balance of power and disciplining Serbia, the rest of them as well!"

Matylda froze, her blood running cold. _What... what do they mean 'disciplining'? The bullies are planning something, aren't they?_

She ran, not caring where she was going, trying to get as far away from those words as possible. The ragged skirts of her uniform tugged against her legs and her threadbare shoes slipped across the polished floor dangerously.

 _We cannot let Serbia trigger any more uprising..._

 _We still have control over them..._

Meanwhile, a figure emerged from one of the rooms, holding a jug of water. They noticed Matylda and began to greet her when she collided with them, dislodging the jug from the figure's grip.

Suddenly, Matylda fell, hitting the floor with a painful thud beside the spilled water. Wincing, she dragged herself from the ground to face her friend, Konrad, gripping a nearby cabinet.

"Matylda, are you alright?" he asked, panic evident in his voice. At this, Matylda grabbed his shoulders to steady herself.

"Do not freak out, but Austria and Hungary are planning something, I'm sure of it. I overheard them talking about the assassination and how they are going to 'discipline' Serbia."

She took a deep breath and sighed, "I don't know when or how they are going to do it, but we need to be careful not to anger them or something will happen."

"Wait, really?" Konrad exclaimed, "I realise that they are upset about the Archduke's death but... It seems like they are going to punish an entire country just for one man. It's not right."

"I know, but keep your voice down. You're going to wake the others." Matylda warned, checking the corridor for movement, "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Just get some sleep."

With that, Matylda crept cautiously away, to find her room and settle down for the night.

If she could.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thank you for reading the first instalment of The Poppy Field. I hope you enjoyed it so far.**

 **To be honest, I was at odds on how to portray Hungary in this anthology because while the Hungarians were sort of second-in-command in the empire, they were still ruled by the Austrians and were fairly oppressed and discriminated against.**

 **I didn't want to make her Roderich's puppet, nor did I think that she would be openly rebellious. So I tried to show her hesitancy to just go along with things as well as her desire for revenge and control- after all, she did have a small empire of her own in the past, owning parts of Slovakia, Slovenia and Romania. She has quite a complicated relationship with the other parts of the empire- supporting them but wanting to act as an authority to preserve her status as second-in-command. So this is why in the first few months, she may be a bit less independent.**

 **Speaking of Slovakia- and Czechia- the official designs have come out! They are so cool and the designs and personalities seem to fit the countries quite well in my opinion. You can view them on the Hetalia Archive Scanlation site.**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers.**

 **Author's Note: Here it is, the second chapter! This time, Ludwig stresses about politics and is visited by Roderich and Erzsébet. While I only now notice how short the chapter actually looks on the website, I hope that you enjoy this.**

 **By the way, thank you 'guest' for your kind review, as I was quite nervous about publishing this. Because of this, I am going to publish this chapter now instead of when the next chapter is uploaded.**

 **I hope that you enjoy this chapter.**

 **-Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Two: Diplomacy, in all forms

 _Berlin, German Empire, July 1914._

It was the afternoon in Berlin and the summer breeze whistled through the streets and into the home of the personifications of the German Empire. Though, instead of the sun-bathed calm of the capital, the house emitted an atmosphere of deep thought and stress.

Inside, Ludwig was pacing, as he always did when he was thinking hard about situations that worried him. His boots clicked against the polished wooden floor, only slightly muffled by a carpet which peeked from under a sturdy desk. His brother, Gilbert, sat languidly on a leather chair, head leaning in his hand.

 _From what I have heard, the Kaiser is planning to attack France through Belgium in order to focus on Russia in case of a conflict emerging from the current crisis._ Ludwig reflected, looking at nothing in particular except the cool greens and rich browns of the room blurring together. His mind was on fire now, illuminating the collected facts he had garnered from the news, his leaders, his people...

 _This is ideal, to get revenge on France and to have Russia out of the picture before he is able to strike._

The clicking of his boots became faster, almost matching his heartbeat. _However, this is not confirmed with the Austria-Hungary yet._

 _ **Click, click, click, click...**_ _They may decide to solve the problem diplomatically which we will support-_

"Ludwig, stop pacing!" Gilbert groaned, "You're making me dizzy."

The blurry green and brown shapes cleared and the flame was gone. The German paused and turned towards his brother, annoyed. "Well, have you come up with any ideas yet, _bruder_?"

"Well, what have the Serbians said about it?" Gilbert asked, "I mean, we already know how the Austrians feel about the assassination- haven't seen the young master that angry since Napoleon."

Ludwig leafed through various papers and news articles but shook his head. "Nothing as yet from the Serbs, though there are rumours that the Bosnian who killed the Archduke was part of a larger group of people- called the Black Hand. No, wait, it is confirmed! It says that they are agents of the Black Hand."

"Huh," Gilbert said, sitting up, "Isn't that the Serbian group that wants a pan-Slavic nation? That may be why they shot the Archduke, to drive the Austrians out."

"Either way, we need to arrange a meeting with them soon. After all, I suspect that they will be planning to organise a solution sometime." Ludwig replied as he began to fiddle with the medals on his lapel.

Gilbert sighed, looking down into his lap. Ludwig frowned. _Huh? Why is he doing that? I mean, he has been rather quiet recently, but is... he upset about something?_

He crouched by the Prussian's side. "Gilbert, are you all right?"

Gilbert shooed him away with a hand, shaking his head. "I am fine, it's nothing Ludwig."

Ludwig raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "Are you sure? If there is anything you need to tell me, then you can."

Gilbert did not respond for a few moments, as if to process his thoughts.

"I've seen you grow over the years, you have become a strong empire, Luddie." Gilbert said, "I do not think that you need as much of my help any more."

"But I cannot possibly... without your help..."

"Ah, ah, you are the German Empire now,"Gilbert interrupted, a small smile appearing on his face, "It is time that you express what the German Empire wants. Remember what Bismarck said? He said that a government must not waver once it has chosen its course. It must not look to the left or right but go forward."

Ludwig nodded slowly, "You are saying that I need to go ahead with it?"

"Yes, in fact," Gilbert said, "Why not talk to Austria and Hungary about it when they meet us? It's in two weeks time."

 _If the Kaiser does not do something impulsive, or the Russians do not start moving to protect Serbia that is.. Hopefully a desirable solution can be made without Bismarck's expertise in political action- it's not as if I can really consult him now..._

%&%

 _Two weeks later..._

"Ah, hello specs, Erszebet! Come in!" Gilbert called, grinning brightly at his guests as they entered. Erzsébet tutted at him, muttering a hello, as well as something else that Ludwig could not quite hear.

Roderich frowned at the nickname and walked past the Prussian to greet Ludwig. "Hello, I trust that we will be discussing the current Serbian problem, yes?"

"Yes, we will." Ludwig answered, before turning to address Erzsébet, who had been quietly arguing with Gilbert.

"Gilbert!" Ludwig interrupted, opening the drawing room door, "How about we discuss our next step as the Central Powers, hm?"

"Yes, let's do that, instead of wasting our time with infantile bickering." Roderich agreed, glaring at Gilbert while beckoning for Erzsébet to follow him.

Soon, they were settled in the drawing room, where copies of official documents and note paper were placed, as well as cups of water and pens.

"Why is there no tea?" Roderich asked, examining the water cup suspiciously.

"There is not tea because this is a meeting, not a social gathering." Ludwig explained, "Now, we must discuss the current situation with Serbia. What do you think we should do?"

Erzsébet glanced to Roderich for approval before answering. "Well, we wish that Serbia be punished for plotting against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It has been suggested many times by the Chief of Staff, Conrad von Hötzendorf, that we go to war with Serbia, but there has not been an opportunity until now. However, we don't really think that our neighbours will approve."

Ludwig jotted this down, nodding to himself.

"I can understand that," Gilbert replied, "Serbia's allied with Russia! They are becoming a world power as we speak, they are not to be messed with."

"Then how could we make our intentions clear to Serbia without alerting Russia?" Roderich questioned, sipping the water, "Talk to them?"

Ludwig sat up abruptly. "Not quite, merely show we mean business. Roderich, do you remember at the end of the Balkan Wars when Serbia took Albania? You got the Serbs out of Albania within eight days..."

"By an ultimatum," Roderich finished, "Yes, I remember that."

"So you are saying that we make an ultimatum to Serbia?" Erzsébet asked, raising an eyebrow quizically.

"It was merely a suggestion," Ludwig shrugged, "Of course, it is your decision to make."

He noticed an awkward silence emerge. Erzsébet checked her watch, tapping at the clock face, while Roderich stared into his lap in thought.

 _Am I being too forward with this? They look half-asleep to me!_ He realised. He looked to Gilbert, who nodded at him encouragingly _, I should not be making the decisions for them, I should be giving advice, that is what Gilbert has always said. Why didn't I listen?_

Suddenly, Roderich looked up from his lap and stood up, hands clasped together.

"Have you thought of something?" Ludwig asked, almost imploring.

"Yes, I have," he replied, "We need tea."

* * *

 **Author's Note: What I meant by: 'haven't seen the young master that angry since Napoleon.' is that during the Napoleonic Wars (1799-1815) the Austrian Empire was controlled by Napoleon after the Battle of Austerlitz and repeatedly tried to revolt- these failed until 1813. I would imagine that Roderich would indeed be very miffed at this.**

 **In terms of how the Nations refer to others, I think that they would call allies by their human names and their enemies and neutral Nations by the country names for the sake of formality.**

 **Anyway, thank you for reading.**

 **-Anonymous Lily**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers.**

 **Author's Note: Sorry if this is behind schedule, but here is the next chapter. There is a slight time jump now, as this snapshot is set after Austria-Hungary has declared war on Serbia and is set when the Russian Empire begins to mobilise.**

 **I hope that you enjoy this chapter.**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

 **P.S: (Thank you 'abc' for your review. You were right- Prussia was oddly quiet in the last chapter and I will try and edit in some dialogue for him. He is going to have more dialogue, but you may want to look again. I hope you like what you see, as well as this chapter.)**

* * *

Chapter Three: The Bear Awakens

 _St Petersburg, Russian Empire, August 1914._

It was morning in the Alexandrovsky Gardens and the sun was cascading down through the clouds and into the trees, bathing the grass and dainty flowers in light. Momentarily, the sky was masked in dark clouds looming ominously; then they moved on. The park, usually alive with citizens, was sparsely populated, save for a few people, Ivan Braginsky being one of them.

He had wandered into the park for a quick stroll before he was due to meet the commander-in-chief of the Russian army at 10 o' clock for a briefing. Ivan thought that it would be beneficial to use the time before the briefing to read.

He was indeed dressed for the occasion, having earlier donned his newest uniform, which- true to the modern style- was stiff and heavy, covered in tassels and lapels. However, Ivan was thankful that his favourite black boots were still smart enough to wear and that the Czar was lenient enough to let him wear his iconic scarf to meetings, which he had since the time of Ivan IV

In his hand, he held a small envelope, which contained a private letter from his Serbian ally, Teodor Loncar. The paper was crisp, if a little stained from the postman's fingers and felt oddly light. _It's odd, Teodor usually writes long letters,_ Ivan pondered, _Although, he may not have the time now._

Carefully, he opened the envelope and slid the letter out.

 _ **Dear Ivan,**_

 _ **The sons of dogs have done it. Austria and Hungary have declared war on me. They have the German Empire supporting them too, maybe even the Ottomans.**_

 _ **And all because of that stupid ultimatum they sent me yesterday, that they knew I wasn't going to accept. What country would accept these terms that basically allow them to walk all over you and stamp your face into the mud? Not Serbia, not I!**_

 _ **From what I have heard from Prime Minister Pasic, the Austro-Hungarian armies are going to be attacking soon. They have the third largest population in Europe, fed by anti-Serbian propaganda, even more since the assassination, so I have a tough fight on my hands.**_

 _ **Anyway, the reason that I am writing is that I need help, and I know that you would be the most likely to help me in this situation. From one Slavic brother to another, I ask for your help to combat the Central Powers.**_

 _ **Yours,**_

 _ **Teodor**_

Ivan skimmed through the letter again, concerned. The Russian Empire had already began to move troops near the Serbian border as a precaution, but this seemed to put things into a bigger perspective, a perspective that plainly said that this was not enough to help Serbia fight the Central Powers. Something bigger needed to happen.

But at the same time, a nagging thought kept appearing in the back of Ivan's head. _We do not want a war, we want to be able to eat. What will the war do for the poor?_ This little murmur had always been there, ever since he first discovered his immortality, but since 1905- the year of the fateful march for equality being violently subdued- the murmur became a harsh whisper and was getting slightly louder. It worried Ivan, how he wanted his people to eat and be happy, and yet he was enchanted by the power and splendour of the monarchy.

His thoughts were interrupted by the pealing of the St Petersburg bells, signalling Ivan's hasty walk through the capital to find the Grand Duke's palace.

 _Do not worry Teodor,_ Ivan smiled, hearing the ringing reverberating across the city, _The Russian Empire is right beside you._

%&%

"Ivan, I require your presence." the Grand Duke called. Ivan hastened his pace, catching up to him easily in the airy entrance hall of the Grand Duke's palace. The previously sunny weather, now cloudy, filtered through the windows, giving the room a dusty feel.

 _I remember when this place was first built,_ Ivan smiled to himself, _It still looks to be in good condition, just as warm as before._

Ivan paused, catching his breath, "I am here, Grand Duke Nickolaev-"

"Just call me Nickolai, that will make things easier." he replied, turning on the spot to face the Russian personification. His face was weary, like he had not slept in a few days. Despite this, he stood tall, tired eyes almost level with Ivan's eyes with a look of tired authority.

"...You are late, why?" Nickolai queried.

"You see sir, I was in the Alexandrovsky Garden and I lost track of time," Ivan admitted, casting his eyes down subconsciously. Nickolai frowned slightly at the movement and Ivan looked up.

"So, why have you asked for me, Nickolai? Do you want to talk about something?" Ivan ventured, glancing quickly at the window before refocusing on the Grand Duke.

"I wish to talk about the upcoming war," Nickolai sighed, "There is no doubt that there is a war going on now, with the Austro-Hungarian Empire declaring war on Serbia, Germany making plans to invade, every nation in Europe is expecting a war. Though of course you already know that."

"Hm," Ivan nodded, "I understand that we have already started mobilising near Serbia. However, what is the plan for defeating the Central Powers?"

"What we are thinking of doing is attacking Germany through East Prussia and Austria-Hungary near the border before the Carpathians. Seeing as how we can transport our troops fairly quickly, they should arrive in about four days." Nickolai explained, "We are also dedicating a small part of our navy to defend the Black Sea from the Ottomans."

"I see. What happens if the Germans invade though? What do we do then?" Ivan questioned.

Nickolai frowned, before taking out a piece of paper from his pocket an inspecting it.

"Sorry, Ivan," he apologised, "I forgot for a moment. Now, if the Germans invade, we will have to get rid of the major industrial factories so they cannot take our weapons, won't we? Of course, the people will need to move as well."

This struck a chord with Ivan, he remembered the thought he had earlier today. _If they have to move... where would they go?_

Suddenly, he dug his fingernails into his palms in frustration. _For goodness sake, Ivan! Of course they have to move, they could get killed. This is war we are talking about and you have seen enough of them to know what happens! It is for the good of the Empire and the people that this happens, better that then them being slaughtered by the Germans._

"Ivan?" Nickolai asked, waving a hand in front of the personification's face, "Are you all right?"

Ivan blinked, and put on a sunny smile.

"Yes sir."

* * *

 **Author's Note: I really hope that I represented Grand Duke Nickolai Nickolaevich Romanov well enough- this is my first time writing a historical figure! From what I found, he was very religious- praying every day before and after every meal, a tough but respected commander, and loved hunting.**

 **I also hope that I was able to portray the internal conflict between imperialism and communism in Ivan, because it was fun to write!**

 **Feel free to correct me if I am wrong on anything.**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next installment of The Poppy Field. I hope that you are enjoying it so far. I just wanted to apologise for not updating sooner, as I have been quite busy. I al** **so wanted to let you know that my updates will be quite irregular, but I will try and update every three weeks at the very least, so I hope that you stick around for more chapters.**

 **This time, Germany is mobilising and troops are coming towards Paris, so Francis has to find an unusual way of getting to the front in time...**

 **Also, there is historical smoking in this chapter, just to let you know.**

 **I hope that you enjoy this chapter, despite how short it is.**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Four: A Matter of Convenience

 _Paris, France, 1914_

The German Army was close, Francis felt it in his bones. Even as he sat in a cafe, a freshly baked croissant on a plate in front of him as the early morning sun peeped over the elegant cityscape. He could feel the ground shaking from German boots marching over the countryside like an oncoming thundercloud.  
His own troops had been sent three days earlier. It made him feel vulnerable, even more so than any other time recently; it made him realise that he could be overtaken, if he did not fight back. For such a proud nation as France, it was humiliating to be reduced to such a weak state of waiting for the enemy, being safe while his citizens were possibly dying. It angered him how he let himself go rusty, when before he was literally the ruler of Europe.

It was not that he did not want to go to the Front to fight with his citizens. He had been eager to fight back ever since the Germans had unapologetically violated the neutrality of Belgium. From the scrambled messages and rumours, quite a few people were injured or killed during the invasion. The reports from the survivors were not promising, only adding more evidence that the German Army was a truly unstoppable force that had all but abandoned the tactics and etiquettes of older wars. Their war was a child of the Industrial Revolution, a war of savagery of the most impersonal form.

The only reason that he was still in Paris was due to orders from the government to stay with the younger soldiers, in order to boost their morale. Just this morning, he had been told to wait at the meat markets outside of Paris with the soldiers, although they never explained exactly why.

 _This is not good at all, I need to do something,_ He thought to himself, _I need to be with my people when they fight against the Germans. Why am I here?_

Francis picked up the croissant and nibbled it, noticing a group of soldiers standing awkwardly on the other side of the road. He waved at them, smiling casually before crossing the road carefully, croissant in hand, to greet them.

"Bonjour, I see that you are the new recuits, oui?" he asked. The soldiers glanced to one another before nodding.

" _Oui,_ Seventh Division. We are going to the frontline soon," one of them replied, smiling excitedly, "Let's hope that it will be a quick victory over the Germans." The speaker was young and perky, his brown eyes sparkling with life. From under his hat, an unruly black mop of hair hung out carelessly.

Francis grinned. "I like your spirit."

"Thank you." the soldier replied, getting out a cigarette and fishing in his pockets for a lighter. None of the other soldiers standing near him moved to offer their comrade any assistance, perhaps because they had left their lighters at home.

"Do you need a lighter, monsieur...?" Francis asked.

"Alphonse Fortier." the soldier said, before nodding, "If you don't mind."

"Nice to meet you, Alphonse. My name is Francis. Where are you from?" Francis said, handing his lighter to Alphonse and taking another bite of his croissant.

"Nice, and you?" Alphonse answered, puffing out small grey clouds as he spoke.

"Ah... I am but a native of Paris." Francis smiled, falling back on a well-used lie. He did not want the young soldier to think of him as a madman so early after meeting him, after all.

Alphonse looked from side to side, occasionally taking a puff of his cigarette. It was then that Francis noticed a faint rumbling sound, like thunder from a faraway storm.

"What the..." he wondered, squinting into the distance, noticing a clump of dark shapes getting closer as the rumbling grew louder.

He gestured to an older soldier, "What is that? Do you know?"

"They're taxis, sir." he answered.

At this, Francis stared incredulously at him. "...Taxis? They are all taxis?" To him, it sounded ridiculous, like something from a science-fiction novel. _Joffre_ _would never do something as strange as that._

"Yes, sir." the soldier replied, "I remember the general mentioning taxis yesterday, how they were going to transport the troops to the battlefield."

Then, as if summoned by them being mentioned, what looked like hundreds of wine red taxis arrived in front of the puzzled soldiers. The eldest of them simply smiled, snickering at their gobsmacked faces. The taxi driver nearest to them waved, beckoning them forward.

"Come on, quickly now!" the driver called, "You have a battle to go to!"

Francis shrugged before running into the taxi. Soon, the others followed, piling into the vehicles or hanging onto the sides as they set off towards the Marne.

As they set off, soldiers chatted amongst themselves, some marvelling at their vehicle and others sleeping. Francis sighed, looking out onto the countryside with a mixture of hope and dread as the Marne drew closer by the second.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **Alphonse Fortier is a fictional character- as far as I am aware- that was a part of the very real Seventh Division, which numbered at 5,000 men.** **According to the Sunday Express, 250 taxis were used for this purpose,** **although the soldiers may have been more organised than in this story. I did not find many witness accounts. (You can tell me if there are any if you want to!)**

 **Joffre was one of the commanders of the French Army during the First World War, but the taxi plan was mainly executed by the French Military-Governor Joseph Pallieni.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	5. Chapter 5

****Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, it belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.****

 ** **Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next chapter of the Poppy Field. Originally, this chapter was going to be from the British perspective with bits of other places as well. However, I was recently inspired by what I am currently learning in history- medicine and Hitler's Germany- and I just started writing about the attack on Belgian civilians by the Germans (sometimes known as the Rape of Belgium).****  
 ** **Although I realise that this event occurred before the taxi incident, I like how it turned out and do not feel it necessary to swap them over for the sake of chronological correctness.****

 ** **A little warning here, things will get a bit more graphic in this chapter, with scenes of injury. After all, this is modern war.****

 ** **Thank you for reading!****  
 ** **~Anonymous Lily****

* * *

Chapter Five: A Reluctant Host  
Adie awoke to screaming. Alarmed, she bolted up and winced at a dull ache in her ribs. She was in a hospital, full to the brim with anxious-looking doctors and confused young nurses. The air was pungent, full of the sickly sour smell of vomit and blood. She had been placed in a bed in the corner of the draughty, dimly-lit room. Gritting her teeth, she began to pull herself up from the bed when a panicked nurse grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down.

"Miss, you cannot get up, not in your state." the nurse said firmly, her Flemish clumsy and broken. From what she could see of her uniform, the Nurse was British.

 _Why am I in a British hospital?_ _What happened?_

The person who cried out before did so again, with more desperation.

Adie shook her head, "I am fine, Nurse. Go see someone else who needs you more, like that person who keeps calling for help."

Indignant, the Nurse tutted. "Miss, your chest was crushed and you were barely breathing. You are not fine and need medical attention..."

"How did I get this? What happened?" she interrupted.

"One of the patients found you on the street after witnessing a German soldier attack you." the Nurse sighed, "He said you were fighting and then you suddenly collapsed. He stood on your chest and left without a word. Now let me see that wound!"

Frustrated, Adie pulled up her blood-stained shirt, showing the Nurse an almost completely healed ribcage, with simply small bruises where large gashes should have been. The Nurse stared, perplexed, before rushing off after a doctor.

Adie ran a hand across the wound, the dull ache shrinking. Then she remembered, memories bleeding into each other...

 _Belgium was under seige. From the other side of the border, hoardes of grey-clad soldiers marched, their guns gleaming like a beacon. Most of the citizens had fled further away, leaving the Belgian Army and the few armed civilians to face the oncoming menace to their peaceful lives._

 _Adie herself had positioned herself a little away from the main forces, facing one person in particular._

 _Ludwig Beilschmidt._

 _The last time Adie saw him, he was quiet, observing his elder brother's movements and political techniques with the wide eyes of a student. Now, as he towered above her, Ludwig was in his element. Rigidly, he stood at the other end of the street, clear blue eyes boring into Adie's own._

" _Belgium, let us pass. Our quarrel is not with you, but with France." Ludwig stated._

 _Adie was initially outraged. How dare this sapling demand that she, a powerful empire, allow them to walk over her, use her as a springboard to settle their quarrel?_

" _You cannot go through here," Adie said forcefully, "Go through Alsace-Lorraine if you are so intent on fighting France."_

 _Ludwig stepped toward Adie indignantly. "You cannot stop me, just let my men through and we won't cause any trouble at all."_

 _She reached for her gun. "I said, you are not going through here." Adie repeated._

 _Suddenly, Ludwig punched her, sending the Belgian personification backwards. Wiping the blood from her nose, Adie blocked another punch and kicked him in the chest. As he fell back, Ludwig grabbed her hair, dragging her forwards so that she practically could smell his breath._

" _Get out of my terrritory!" Adie growled, pointing her gun at the German's neck. They remained in a deadlock for a few tense moments before Ludwig lunged. She pulled the trigger._

%&%

 _Then, she was in Bruges. The German Army had advanced significantly, to the point where most of Belgium was overrun. Adie felt a strange sickness in her stomach,_

 _"Stop, Ludwig! What are you doing to them?" Adie screamed, gasping in pain. She could hear them: women, children, men, innocent civilians as they were ruthlessly slaughtered, one by one. She felt every body burning, the flesh peeling off; she felt every gunshot as it ripped through another person's heart._

 _All the while, Ludwig stood, staring at the Belgian with a blank stare. Was he smiling? Was he ashamed? Did he enjoy the power it gave him? Adie could not tell, only that the deaths were still occuring, that her citizens were dying by the hundreds and she could do nothing about it, only watch._

 _Adie felt a heavy weight drop onto her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs._

%&%

 _A plethora of voices, imploring her, demanding her to awaken..._

" _Miss, wake up!"_

" _Damn it Adie, get up! We need you!"_

" _Belgium, Belgium, it's Arthur. We've got you to the buffer zone now."_

" _Belgique, wake up now."_

Adie again looked around her. The hospital had become even more crowded, the cries and groans bouncing off the walls.

Germany had invaded her country. He and his men had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent civilians.

He was not going to get away with this.

* * *

 ** **Author's Note: Germany invaded Belgium on the 4th August. German attacks on Belgian citizens began officially the next day and happened in towns across the country. These attacks were publicised in German newspapers and justified by saying that those killed were civilian snipers. One of the most famous massacres was in Louvain- which was so intense that it became a headline in the New York Tribune. It has been estimated that about six thousand Belgians and French civilians were killed in the first few weeks of the war. Sadly, this was just an example of the numerous atrocities associated with the First World War.****

 ** **On another note, I am not sure about my portrayal of Belgium in this chapter- I am not used to writing her. I see her as tough and stubborn underneath her good-natured and friendly façade, what with her being a former empire with many colonies, as well as fighting in a lot of wars.****

 ** **(By the way, thank you abc for your reviews, though you do not need to immediately review whenever a new chapter comes out, so don't worry about being late. Also, thanks to urfabiosis for reviewing- although in your particular case, you could have just told me the feedback!)****

 ** **Anyway, thank you for reading,****

 ** **~Anonymous Lily****


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next chapter of the Poppy Field. This time, we see the Ottoman Empire joining the war- for various reasons that** **I** **will try to explore in this little episode.** **I also realised that I have not done a chapter from the Central Powers side for a while, the last three were from the Entente Powers/neutral perspective. Now, we introduce the Ottoman Empire into the war.** **  
** **Thank you for reading!  
~Anonymous Lily  
** **P.S: I am sorry international_recluse, I did plan to have it published on the 18** **th** **,** **but I did not have enough time.**

* * *

Chapter Six: On the Edge of Oblivion

 _Istanbul, Ottoman Empire, November 1914_

Istanbul: the city that bridged two continents, full to the brim with life and movement, of footsteps pounding on ancient stone like a beating drum, gradually eroding the steps until they curved. This had been the centre of the world at one time, where for centuries, scholars from everywhere had come to study in the ancient libraries; Istanbul was the place where people had come to make their fortunes or to escape their past. It was now the heart of the Ottoman Empire, a testament to the strength and influence that the 'old man of Europe' had once had.

Today, on this chilly November morning, rows upon rows of young, fit men were signing up to join the army from all across the Ottoman Empire, especially in Istanbul.

It was here that Sadık Adnan was, sneaking through the streets quietly. Around him, citizens unknowingly moved out of his path, one of the lesser-known perks of his strange existence. The November wind whipped his scarf around, filling the streets with a shocking cold. Other parts of the empire were also meeting with esteemed leaders of their communities, most likely not faring any better in terms of the weather.

 _Hey, at least I wore my coat,_ he remarked to himself. On the other end of the street, eager recruits shivered in their light day clothing while they chatted to the soldiers who wearily wrote down names.

In front of him, a newspaper caller bellowed out the news. "Today, the Ottoman Empire declares war on the side of the Central Powers! Men all across the empire are required to join!"

"I know..." Sadık muttered to himself, slipping past the man carefully. Now, the street was widening as he neared the coast that ran between the two halves of himself.

It seemed almost like a dream, that Sadık would wake up in his bed to find that war was not declared- he was not sure whether it would be a relief or a shame.

He was tired, having barely slept the night before with having to read letters from various diplomats, other Nations and organisations. That, on top of the usual adrenaline rush of emotions that hit a Nation on the verge of war, was enough to make the youngest of them drop down from exhaustion.

Nevertheless, Sadık persisted. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Enver, one of the three Pashas leading the empire, leaning out from a building and looking out at something. He gestured to his bodyguards before retiring out of view.

"I wonder what they're talking about now." Sadık thought, checking for any other movements, "Already, ships were being sent to the Black Sea in order to defend it from Russia. Every place in the empire is being protected by the army. What do they need to do now?"

To him, the European Nations that he had watched from afar had become more warmongering, hungry for something to shatter their years of decorum and civility and feel the blood in their veins once more. In some ways, he wanted to join the fray and was drawn to the excitement and frenzy that seemed to drive them. Battles semed to spring up everywhere, on the Western Front, the Eastern Front, in the skies and in the ocean.

However, as his eyes scanned over the various mosques, churches, cafés and houses, he remembered all of the hard work that went into keeping peace. While he was busy conquering far off lands and stopping foreign invaders, his leaders were, for the most part, keeping order within the empire, allowing people of different religions to set up schools, places where they could gather.

""Would this prosperity end if we go to war?"Sadık wondered, _Sometimes, I feel that the benevolent side of me is going away, being replaced by something else._ _It's ever since that revolution in 1908.._.

Suddenly, a small voice piped up, startling him. "I don't know, sir. But either way we need to fight."

Sadık frowned, looking down at a small child. She could not have been more than nine years old, and wore an oversized, sky-blue coat that was worn and tattered. Soft, leather shoes peeked from underneath. Her brown eyes stared up, innocent intent on her dark, thin face.

Like many places, there were often street orphans in major cities. Occasionally, he would play with them and told them stories to give them hope. He had gained the reputation of being the peson who knew everything and was not afraid to tell them the truth. However, this was the first time in a while that he had been approached by one alone.

"Where did you come from?" he asked, a little puzzled. The child gestured to the docks. Sadık nodded understandingly.

"I heard the newspaper man and the soldiers talking, they say that we need to defend ourselves from inside as well from people wanting to support Russia and France. Is that true?" The girl leaned against a nearby wall.

"Well... um..." Sadık chewed his lip in thought, recalling the various letters that spoke of threats to Ottoman stability from within the empire. He knew that it was gradually becoming more unstable from these reports, but to him, the threats seemed small and easy to deal with- he was the Ottoman Empire after all, an ancient civilization that had survived plagues, wars, the Romans and everything in-between.

Even if he was a bit rusty, he had the German Empire behind him, one of, if not the most powerful nation in Europe. With its bustling factories and professional soldiers, it was ideal. Sadık felt a rush of courage wash through his weary, cautious mind like water.

"Maybe, child," he replied, putting a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, "But shouldn't we focus on the enemies outside the empire? They pose a bigger threat."

The girl nodded, giving a soft smile, "Yes, sir."

"Goodbye!"

* * *

 **Author's Note: There we go, another chapter! It gets quite difficult to choose what to cover, and I try and show as many perspectives as possible. That being said, the Ottoman Empire was surprisingly accepting of different religions for most of its history- though this does not mean that they did not supress them and the countries under its rule.  
I say most, because after the Young Turk Revolution of 1908 the Turks became more nationalistic and began to think of themsleves as superior to others in the empire- this rhetoric was a very large factor in the Armenian Genocide that occurred during the war.**

 **In other news, this is my first attempt to write Turkey. He is a very dynamic character with a lot of history but despite this I find him one of the more mysterious characters as not much is shown about his struggles or what he is thinking. This leaves a lot to interpretation.  
~Anonymous Lily**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next chapter of the Poppy Field! I realise it is late than I had planned, but hopefully you will enjoy it.**

 **This time, I'm doing it a bit different- this is a chapter that involves mainly America and Canada. The reason I wanted to do it like this is because I noticed that I cannot really cover as much as I'd like to of the destruction and sheer scale of the war and, seeing as America is neutral- for now- he is a good way to see what else was happening.**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter!**  
 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Seven: The Interlude

 _Washington D.C, United States, 1914._  
Alfred glanced from place to place, listening absent-mindedly at the chatter that filled the post office. His usual sparkling optimism had dulled with the declaration of war back in August, leaving him with a persistent ache of worry, dimming the spark.

Around him, cold, irritable people stood like penguins, huddled in groups and collectively grumbling from the cold. Outside, it was barely light enough to see the cityscape that had been created only a few years before; clearly Washington was under the harsh grip of winter. Somewhere, a baby gurgled, despairingly audible despite the whistling gale on the streets.

Today was the day when Alfred was supposed to be getting a letter from Matthew, who had gone to the Western Front in September. The Canadians had been quite eager to set off in order to help the British, his brother included.

 _He had always been a bit closer to Arthur than me,_ Alfred reflected, tapping his foot on the floor as he waited for the queue to finally move. He pulled his fur-lined jacket inwards to his chest to try and conserve his heat.

His stomach grumbled.

Next to him, a woman checked her gloves, frowning severely. A feathered red hat was perched atop her head, framing her angular face and curly, chestnut-brown hair. A large bag was looped on one arm, while a newspaper was cradled in the other

"For goodness sake," she grumbled, "Why is this taking so long?" The title of the paper she was holding caught Alfred's eye: 'Austro-Hungarians enter Belgrade'.

 _They've entered Belgrade already?_ Alfred wondered, _Matt never mentioned that. If the weakest of the Central Powers managed to complete their goal in this short of a time... I hope they're okay._

It was hard sometimes to be an onlooker, especially in such a large conflict. The chaotic events taking place in the world almost felt like something fictional, they were too big to be true. Scarborough was bombed; another village was flattened by shells; the Middle East joins the war so that Central and Entente alike can snatch any resources they can...

And then somewhere in the mix, there are young men and women, just trying to survive in a world of madness. The confusion had been having a negative affect on Alfred's well-being as it is, he could only imagine what it was like for a warring nation- especially one used as a battlefield.

 _And they say it'll be over by Christmas!_ Alfred remarked. His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of the post office assistant.

"Mr Jones! Here is your letter, from Mr Matthew Williams." he chirped, plastering a chipper smile onto his nervous face.

"Thanks, buddy." Alfred said, flashing a warm smile and pushing his way through the disgruntled crowd.

* * *

It was now noon and the sun was piercing through the December cloud. Alfred was sitting in one of his favourite cafés, letter in hand and a coffee on the recently-polished table. The paper felt rough against his hands, with ink blotches and little doodles on one side. There was a particularly detailed sketch of a bear, folded in half during the construction of the envelope- the visible eye staring.

Despite his worry, Alfred smiled softly, reminiscing a time when Matthew would draw at meetings, his face screwed up in thought as his floppy, dirty-blond hair blew across his face.

"I wonder what's happening on Matt's end." he said, peeling open the envelope and reading its contents:

 _Dear Alfred,_

 _How are you getting on? I hope you're okay back there, because it is getting a bit chaotic on the other side of the Atlantic._

 _Things are going fairly well on the Western Front, we're holding our ground against the Germans, which is good. They almost broke through the line recently, but the Brits managed to_ _stop them before they did any major damage! That, at least, is a positive of this whole situation. Not that I want to leave, my men are needed here, but it isn't all it's cracked up to be._

 _To be honest, the trenches stink to high heaven, which is ironic, seeing as how there is enough water in them to turn the Sahara green- shame it's not clean! A lot of the men here are getting sick, their feet are rotting in their boots. Honestly, I would like to take a bit of a break, but it's probably not going to happen at the moment- we're trying to get this done for Christmas._

 _In other news, we found Anri in Bruges. Apparently, Ludwig injured her when his troops invaded and she was found by one of the survivors of the attack. Luckily, Arthur managed to find her and take her to a British hospital. Her men, led by the King of Belgium, are coping quite well, considering the reduced amount of men in her armies. She's now fighting with Arthur, Francis and I (The South African, Indian and ANZAC forces are here too, but I haven't seen any of the Nations yet.)._

 _By the way, did you hear about the Austro-Hungarians at the Serbian Front? From what I have heard, they have managed to get across the border. Ivan says that he's having trouble getting help there but he is pushing the Austrians back, they have taken Przemyśl again this month._

 _Anyway, I must go away now, my regiment are going to be fighting in the morning._

 _Write back, won't you, ideally before Christmas?_

 _Matthew_

 _P.S: Thanks for the chocolate!_

Alfred looked up, his coffee now tasted cold and bitter on his tongue. Checking his pocket-watch, he gasped. _I need to meet that Grey fellah now!_

Folding the letter into his pocket, he hurriedly slipped a dollar bill under the cup and dashed out into the frost-like cold.

* * *

 **Author's Note: My most heartfelt apologies for not getting this out sooner, the laptop broke and so I missed a week. Nevertheless, I am quite pleased with the results. Although, there are some things that I am not sure about, such as social cues in post offices and Alfred in general- he has been the hardest character to write so far.**

 **(I realise now that this is the second time that I have written a chapter centring around someone reading a letter and possibly the third to have newspapers- mind you, they were a very influential form of media back then, so I guess it is understandable.)**

 **Hopefully, the next chapter will be out soon...**

 **Thank you for reading,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

 **P.S: Happy holidays, readers!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer- I forgot it in the last chapter: Hetalia: Axis Powers belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

 **Author's Note: Hello, here is the next chapter of the Poppy Field. In this chapter, England reflects recent events with his siblings on the Western Front, such as the Battle of Champagne and the Christmas Truce.**

 **I hope that you enjoy this chapter,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

 **P.S: The names of the GB siblings:**

 **Scotland- Alistair**

 **Wales- Gwyneth**

* * *

Chapter Eight: No Time for Celebration

 _Western Front, France, January 1915._

"Hey, Artie. Wake up."

Arthur's eyes snapped open immediately. The sky was still dark above him, the stars faintly glowing between the whisps of smoke and cloud. The concerned face of his elder sister, Gwyneth Kirkland, frowned back at him. The usually springy dark hair was plastered onto her bruised and scar-filled face, giving it the appearence of pondweed. In the daybreak, her grey eyes flickered back and forth with every murmur of the wind.

She was crouched just outside the enclave they had made into a bed. They hardly slept in it- or at all, what with the amount of time they had spent on the front line, holding the enemy back day after day. Eventually, they had been convinced to stop and take the night off by one of the men, back from their five-day rest.

Arthur felt a sharp sting on his collarbone as he sluggishly turned his head to better see his surroundings in all its' muddy and snow-encrusted glory. The trench had not changed overnight, and neither were there any signs of the enemy in his quarters, thank goodness.

 _That's a relief, at least,_ Arthur thought, _The krauts haven't massacred my men while I was asleep._

Slowly, he sat up, almost bumping his head on the edge of his shelter. Arthur brushed himself down and reached for his gun.

"We're doing some more digging as soon as the other lads have got up." Gwyneth explained, stretching as much as she could safely without alerting the Germans that were awake, "Make sure everything works."

Arthur nodded, examining the different parts. "Did you get any letters from the others yet?"

The Welsh woman nodded, gesturing to a fistful of letters, "Alistair was part of the regiment that took part in the Christmas Truce. He got a bottle of whisky from some lad called Johann- the Scottish stuff. Oh, and Francis joined in a bit as well, although he wasn't in the best of moods, what with what's going on in Champagne. Anri's fine, but a little miffed at the whole affair, but then again who can blame her..."

"What about Jett and Bailey, or Lesedi and Inderpal? Are any from them?" Arthur interrupted, finishing his inspection.

Gwyneth shook her head. "Go get the others, would you? Someone's calling me."

Arthur nodded, hearing other men muttering in the reserve trench, watching their breath puff up like mist from their dry mouths.

"Get up, men. We've got work to do." Arthur commanded. One by one, the men pulled themselves up and looked about themselves, looking for something to fix.

The winter months had not been kind to any of his soldiers. With the arrival of the snow, it became harder to try and reinforce the trenches as the ground was either hardened by frost or reduced to icy mud that you could not walk on for a second without risking the fragile duckboards sinking beneath your feet, depending on where you were. During battles, it became even worse. Shells would tear at the land, leaving great craters where there was once trees or even people- not that the Germans cared what they did to the land.

The only thing seperating the two armies was No Man's Land- the very mention of the place made Arthur shiver. He had watched as soldier after soldier scrabble 'up top', bayonets pointed squarely at their enemy, only to be blasted with gunfire or otherwise scarred. It tore him up to see their haunted faces as they came back, shells of the vibrant and valiant souls that they once were, knowing that they will have to repeat themselves. For it was their duty: to defeat the Germans and drive them out of the land they had unlawfully taken from the French and Belgians.

"You there! Get up and help." an officer called, to what appeared to be a man leaning against the wall of the trench, before stalking off to address other stragglers.

Arthur frowned. _Who was this person? Why weren't they doing their duty?_

"Who are you? And what are you doing here?" Arthur asked. Alarmed, the soldier looked up.

His face was sallow and bony, with staring brown colours on his label indicated a private in the Welsh division. The most noticable thing about him was his leg, which had a large gash down the side, hining with the sheen of dried blood.

"My name is Charlie Black. I was left on the battlefield, sir. I got back yesterday and I didn't know what to do." He replied, his words slurring into each other.

He watched as 'Charlie' struggled to sit up. The gash began to ooze blood, the scarlet liquid dripping and mixing with the mud and wood below him. To his dismay, Arthur saw almost no medical officers close enough to summon.

 _This just shows how chaotic things are getting around here, I'll have to take the boy to the hospital myself!_

"Christ!" he muttered to himself, before addressing the wounded combatant, "I'll escort you to the field hospital then. Come with me, Charlie."

Nodding, Arthur let Charlie support him as he walked through the narrow corridors that led away from the trench. All the while, Charlie tried his best to stay upbeat, putting on a brave face whenever Arthur looked his way.

"I think I see the hospital over there, sir." Charlie pointed with a shaky hand. Near the sparse trees that lined the front was a collection of ramshackle wooden buildings. Figures dashed from place to place, nurses in white and dusty blue; officers with glittering lapels and shiny boots.

Suddenly, the ground jolted and the silence was shattered with a sound as loud as thunder, like a thousand cannons firing at once.

 _What on earth..._ Arthur realised, _They've got a new gun! I need to get him out of the way!_

"Get down!" Arthur yelled, throwing himself down. In front of him, Charlie staggered before plummeting to the ground with a resounding cry of alarm.

"Charlie? Charlie!" he croaked.

But Charlie remained silent.

* * *

 **Author's Note: The Battle of Champagne was the first major attack by the Entente since the 'race to the sea'- when the allies were attempting to force an extensive German retreat and were stopped by the Germans digging in, which effectively ended with the beginning of trench warfare. It was mainly a French battle, but other regiments did their bit as well.**

 **(On another note, seeing as how I am covering quite serious events, if you think** **something is off with my interpretation of events or you find something somewhat insensitive, do not be afraid to tell me.)**

 **Thank you,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next instalment of the Poppy Field. This time, we are on the Mesopotamian Front, when the Ottoman forces begin their advance to Egypt through the Suez Canal.**

 **I found out that some ANZAC and Indian troops trained here before going to to either the Mesopotamian front or, later, the Gallipoli front- which is due to open up soon, so that is what inspired this chapter.**

 **Once again, thank you for reading,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

 **P.S: I will probably refer to Egypt as Hassan, because Gupta is not an Egyptian name, as abc has assured me.**

* * *

Chapter Nine: Surprise in the Suez Canal

 _Cairo, Egypt, (late) January 1915._

The Ottomans were advancing.

It was all over the news in Cairo, Alexandria, Luxor and every other major city. An Ottoman infantry unit was planning to take the Suez Canal to assert their dominance in the area.

Hassan had known that it was to happen eventually- he was a British Protectorate within marching distance of the Ottoman Empire. They had already begun to place soldiers at the edges of their land to defend from invasion and he heard that others were coming soon. But when?

Around him, small pockets of students wandered the streets, looking for some form of refreshment- most likely a nice cup of hot _karkadey*_. Despite their efforts to maintain calm, all were on edge- Hassan could feel the anxieties of his people building up like water as it boiled. It was making him feel dizzy.

He had not heard of how the Ottomans had planned the offensive on his land- but with Djemal Pasha being assisted by a German artillery officer leading 25,000 men, it was bound to be well-executed.

 _How can I survive this?_ He thought, _How can I protect the ordinary people from such an army?_

Footsteps approached from behind him. Sharply, Hassan turned and was startled by a young-looking man dressed in a smart yet wrinkled uniform. He wore a turban, dusty brown, with a small silver pin holding it in place. The way he carried himself suggested that he was a Nation, however Hassan could not place who he was exactly.

"Hello! Oh, are you all right?" the man asked, frowning concernedly, "I'm here to help. I came with some of my men to train for the Mesopotamian front. You must be Egy- I mean, Hassan." His accent was warm and soft, as well as strangely familiar.

"Who are you?" Hassan questioned, _I don't remember England mentioning any help arriving, but then again, I might have missed it._

"Ah, my apologies, I am Inderpal Gupta, or India, if you wish to be formal." the man introduced himself, with a curt nod, before sitting beside him.

"When did you get here, Inderpal?" he asked, looking up at the Indian with light suspicion.

"Just yesterday- there was some difficulty getting through the Red Sea," Inderpal laughed somewhat shakily, "The ship I was on was almost spotted by the Ottomans."

Hassan nodded understandingly. Travelling anywhere in this war was risky, especially by sea, where you could get bombarded by planes, submarines or other ships. That was how the Germans had attacked Scarborough back in December, as he had come to understand from the newspaper clipping England had sent him over the winter ceasefire.

"Anyway, there are about 30,000 soldiers at Ismallia, that's me and Jett's men," Inderpal recalled, his soft voice hardening, "And from what has been said, there are about 25,000 of the enemy. We are quite evenly matched in terms of men, but I get the feeling they have something up their sleeve."

Contemplating, Inderpal turned to the shop in front of them, which was giving off the pleasant aroma of coffee.

Hassan stared into the crowd absent-mindedly. A young child was being gently tugged along by a tired mother; a businessman held a bunch of papers under his arm and among them, a pale and confused face stuck out like a sore thumb. The man weaved out of the crowd and narrowly avoided a speeding vehicle.

 _Another soldier, probably British,_ Hassan observed, _Is he looking for something?_

"Jett!" Inderpal exclaimed. Hassan watched with as the man ran towards them.

"Who?"

"Australia." Inderpal replied, waving to Jett.

 _Ah, another Nation,_ he sighed. The Australian slowed to a walk.

"Inderpal, there you are! I've been looking all morning for you." Jett explained as he caught his breath. He glanced at Hassan. "You all right, mate?"

"Yes, thank you for your concern." Hassan answered.

* * *

 _Ismailia, February 1915_

It was noon in Ismailia, where Hassan had travelled to wish the soldiers good luck by special invitation. Hassan reflected dishearteningly that he would have had lunch by now, however he was too worried to eat. The Indian and Australian troops were fighting tomorrow- to protect him.

Suddenly, a sharp breeze raked the stale air in the train station as the train set off. Hassan held the sides of his keffiyeh to stop it from falling off, noting to himself that he should really find a new one that fitted better after this was over.

He spotted Inderpal and Jett discussing something with a lieutenant when he got to them.

"Ah, Egypt!" the lieutenant cried, shaking hands with the Egyptian enthusiastically, "Come to wish us good luck against the Boche, eh?"

Confused, Hassan nodded, glancing to the other Nations for guidance. Noticing this, the lieutenant politely backed away.

"I'll leave you to it, then." he said.

"Do you think that your troops are ready for battle? I heard that you underwent some training back with your regiment, same as me." asked Hassan.

Jett nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be. I mean, this is one of my first real experiences with war so I'll just try to take things as they come."

"Just be careful, the both of you." he warned.

"Relax, Hassan," Jett comforted, "Everything's going to be all right!"

"Do not worry," Inderpal said, placing a hand on the Egyptian's shoulder, "We're not going to fail, we promise."

"We'd better not, otherwise we' never hear the last of it from ol' pommie face." Jett chuckled, "He still hasn't recovered from the last time we played cricket."

Hassan laughed despite himself, feeling a little more calm with support of his new friends.

* * *

*A popular beverage that calms the nerves, made from Hibiscus flowers. Fun fact: they are best made in coffee shops or _kahwas-_ this also just means coffee.

 **Author's Note: The German military officer Hassan referred to was Friedrich Kress von Kressenstein- I'm not surprised he did not recall it. Oh yes, and 'Boche' was a common nickname for the Germans in those days.**

 **Luckily for the trio, this particular battle was an overall success for the Entente, only suffering 125 casualties. In fact, the Central Powers were fairly stretched out in this case, as they had to go without a lot of provisions and basically walk to the battlefield in order to get there in time.**

 **In case you are wondering where my information is from, I get it from The Great War you-tube channel, FirstWorldWar. com and my books.**

 **There will be a time jump in the next chapter- focusing on either Poland or China, I'll figure out which later.**

 **Thank you,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait- a few things happened. Now I'm back and will try my best to do more. This chapter was going to be about the Chinese Labour Corps, but then it would have been too early. So, instead, here is a chapter on Poland.**

 **I hope that you enjoy this chapter,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Ten: The Re-awakening of Feliks Łukasiewicz

 _He was in the midst of a ferocious battle. Somewhere behind him, an inexperienced officer bellowed orders in a language he only vaguely understood while shells flew through the smoke-filled air and crashed, shaking the earth._ _Most of his comrades had already left, running off to fulfil their duty._

 _The ground under his feet was slippery and wet from yesterday's rain, and the mud was beginning to seep into his boots. Still, he carried on, clutching a rifle for dear life, as he struggled to shift his lead-like feet towards their planned destination._

 _Suddenly, he felt pain bloom like a morbid flower and he was knocked off his feet. It was only when he kept on going did he realise that a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself in his shoulder._

 _Gritting his teeth, he ran on, the shrapnel tearing at his tender flesh. The trench was just up ahead, if only he could..._

Feliks' eyes snapped open, his chest heaving with panic. Gone was the churned-up countryside, gone were the enemy's dirt-caked boots, gone was the pain.

Instead, he was staring at a desk, covered with layers of paperwork and dog-eared drawings. Old coffee and dust polluted the air around him, as well as something vaguely metallic that he could not recognise.

As his breathing slowed, Feliks began to recognise the familiar piles of paper and second-hand furniture as his own. Unfortunately, he also became aware of how he felt like a broken accordion whenever he breathed out.

"Damn it, how long have I been here?" Feliks hissed, propping himself up awkwardly on one elbow while he further inspected his surroundings.

In the closest drawing, two figures sat on a broken wall, clutching rifles and a tattered flag. One was slightly hunched over, their light hair framing a dirty face. The other figure sat regally upon their ruined throne with long, dark hair streaming from below an undersized hat. On the bottom, the label simply stated: Budapest, 1848.

 _Strange, I remember that happening, vaguely._

Groaning, he pulled his aching body up, almost tripping over on the various books that littered the carpeted floor. Luckily, he managed to steady himself on a chair before he hurt himself.

 _My god, I'm stiff as old bones._

A mirror by the door revealed a sallow, pale face with limp blond hair scraping at his chin, green eyes dull and cloudy- Feliks almost didn't recognise himself.

 _So, it_ was _me in the picture. How times have changed since that day._

Outside, a gale hit him like a brick, forcing him to hold onto the door frame for support.

 _Have I really become this weak? Damn it, I used to be an empire!_

However, as Feliks looked closer, he could see that he was not the only one struggling with the weather. People walking by clutched their hats and muttered irritably, wrapping their coats tighter around themselves. Feliks walked further out into the streets, scanning for any signal to tell him where he was. Every person felt distinctly familiar, their thoughts somehow springing into his brain. And yet Feliks felt like he was a world away from them, separated by some unknown wisdom.

Numb to the icy wind that whipped his face, he ambled the winding alleys, passing small clumps of people as he did. The streets opened up for him as if he had always known the place, despite the unfamiliar script that had been pasted onto every sign.

 _No, I do know this place,_ he corrected himself as he turned a corner, _Next there will be a bookshop, owned by an old couple but fairly new._

Sure enough, small groups hung around a building, whose bricks had not been tarnished by the years of soot that was coughed up from factory furnaces nearby. Books of every size and genre were displayed in the sparkling window panes. Just in front of him, a man was hurriedly striding towards the shop entrance, his black greatcoat whisked by the wind. At the sight of Feliks, the man stopped, curious.

"Hello? Feliks, my old friend!" the shop owner exclaimed.

Feliks tensed, startled by the sudden noise.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked cautiously at the gentleman in front of him. A kind, wizened face frowned back, brown eyes framed with half-rimmed glasses.

"I do not mean to harm you, but you look awfully lost. It worries me." the gentleman replied, smiling softly. Clutched under his arm was a parcel that had the Russian stamp. Despite this, the address was most definitely not Russian.

 _I'm in Warsaw. That answers one question. But what happened?_

Sighing, Feliks glanced around before leaning towards the man. "Seeing as how you seem to know me, um, can you give me an overview of what has been happening here? I can't remember anything."

"Yes, yes, of course. Come in quickly," the gentleman replied, unlocking the bookshop door and ushering him in. Then, leading him by the arm, he gently dragged Feliks through the countless aisles of books and into a back room.

"I will tell you everything you've missed."

%&%

"So," Feliks concluded, "Warsaw is now in Russian hands, my lands are now a battleground and my people are divided in who to support in order to gain independence."

"Yes," the gentleman, who Feliks now knew as Oskar, replied calmly, "Would you like another drink, Feliks?" He reached for Feliks' glass.

"No, thank you," he declined, "Wait, how do you know my name?"

Oskar muttered something under his breath, sitting back down. The gentleman sighed.

"I was only a young student when I met you, in the aftermath of that rebellion in '48." Oskar explained, "I was struck on the head with a stray brick and had collapsed in an alley when you found me and helped me get to a doctor."

He gestured to a lump on his forhead, barely visible in the dim candlelight.

"I've still got the scar from that day. Anyway, I didn't see you again for another, twenty years, was it?" Oskar looked to Feliks, expecting some form of reply.

"Honestly, I would not remember." Feliks explained, "I don't remember much of anything- it feels like I've been dreaming for the past... goodness knows how long. For all I know, I could have reappeared just to support the revolution and gone back to sleep."

"Really?" Oskar inquired, leaning forwards in his seat, " I would have thought that... your kind would know more about these sort of things. You die enough times."

"No." Feliks said, "A lot of people think that. But in the end, we're not really sure about much. You can die a thousand times but somehow still cannot describe what death feels like. I'm not even sure I died after the dissolution or if I was just muted."

"Ah, now I remember." Oskar realised, "The next time was when there was a big push for Russification after some protest somewhere. An army dragoon entered Warsaw in order to quell the unrest and I saw them hurt you."

"I certainly remember that," Feliks remarked with a snort, "I thought I had hid my abilities."

"You did, for the most part." Oskar admitted, staring at nothing in particular, "At first I thought you were some kind of demon, but then the soldiers had official orders to look for you. It was then that I realised what you were. You went away after that and I hadn't seen you since, until now."

There was silence for a few minutes as Feliks stared into the empty glass and Oskar drummed his fingers on his chair. Outside, the wind howled and battered everything in his path.

 _Ugh, I hate these silences! I need to do something, help my people. Not sit around making small talk with a man who knows more about me than I know myself._

"So," Feliks pondered, "What can I do now? Join the local Polish legion? I mean, I've died enough times to know how to patch people up but..."

"You don't have to go right now, Feliks," Oskar cautioned, "Not when you're like this. Give it a few days, maybe a week at least, before you go gallavanting off to find fellow Poles."

"Oskar, I need to do something now." Feliks said, preparing to get up.

"Feliks, please. Just a day." Oskar replied, also rising from his seat. Feliks walked past him.

"I appreciate your concern, Oskar. I really do. But I have made my decision."

"Now is not the time for blind heroics, Feliks." Oskar warned, raising his voice to the retreating Nation, "If you love your people as we love you, you will wait."

Feliks stopped, statue-like in the doorway.

Oskar carried on, his voice softening, "Think about it, as you remember who you are, so do the people of Poland. They need something to believe in, something solid."

Sighing, Feliks turned once more to face the old man, "It doesn't work that way. It is the spirit of the people that creates me, not the other way around."

"I see," Oskar replied, gingerly stepping forwards, "Then perhaps we can help you to get stronger. As you said, you only really woke up today- the rest feels like a daydream, a wisp of fog. Together, we can get you strong enough so that when this wretched war ends, Poland will return. Your choice."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Did Feliks stay or not? That is for you to decide...**

 **By the way, if there are any Polish readers, feel free to correct me on things in this chapter, as there was a lot of confusion while writing this. (At one point, I thought that Warsaw was part of Prussian Poland.)**  
 **Thank you,**  
 **-Anonymous Lily**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, it belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

 **Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next chapter of the Poppy Field. This is one of the older chapters I wrote before I published the first chapter, so there may be a slight difference in style.**

 **Also, I am sorry for the late update, this was supposed to be uploaded on the 5** **th** **, but mock exams and other such things are getting in the way. Luckily, a little break is coming up soon, so there may be another chapter by then. Perhaps not. But don't worry, I am going to keep doing this for as long as I can.**

 **As always, thank you for reading!**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Bully Beef and Dates

Another day at the trenches had begun for Jett Wilson and the Australian Brigades. The fierce Mediterranean sun viciously beat down on the faces and backs of the soldiers working like ants to reinforce the trenches battered by the latest attacks. Some had resorted to using bayonets to pin blankets above their trenches to create some shade, making the best use of what little they had. Beneath, some men slumped at the sides of the trench wall, trying to pick the endless hoards of lice off their skin or just sleeping.

Jett wiped his brow and paused, putting a sand bag on his knee. _Man, this is hot weather to work in! At least back at home, you could get water and proper shelter!_

Sniffing the air, Jett grimaced. _The latrines must be full._

He sighed and packed the sandbag into the wall, the contents slipping and sliding within the Hessian sack. Next to him, one of the younger soldiers flickered a smile as he helped to protect the sandbags.

Jett grinned back. "You okay there?" he asked, nodding to him. The soldier shrugged, packing sandbags faster to make up for his brief distraction from his duty.

Just then, an older soldier by the name of Bill Sykes nudged Jett's shoulder, passing him a flask of fresh water.

"Here, pass this around to the lads," the Queenslander stated, "We don't need any more fainters, the medical team's overstreched already."

"Cheers," Jett replied, taking a small sip from the flask before offering the sandbag packer a drink. He shook his head.

If he listened closely, Jett could hear the soft voices of the Ottoman soldiers in their trench about fifty metres in front, a reminder that they were not alone by any means. He cast his mind back to earlier in the year, when Jett talked with his honorary brother Bailey about the army learning Turkish, so they could get information from the Ottoman's casual conversation.

Bailey dismissed it, saying it would be too expensive to run lessons or publish phrase books with all of the money going to weapons and such, but considered learning it anyway.

 _Anything to speed this war up would help,_ Jett thought.

It had been several months since his run-in with Inderpal and Hassan at Ismallia, which he had to admit, was a piece of cake compared to the horrors of this front. The moment ANZAC boots had touched the sand of Gallipoli, his men and dropped like flies. For days afterwards, Jett had been plagued with dreams of their final moments.

 _I don't blame anyone for not warning me about that, although it would have been nice._ He contemplated, _There would be no real way to prepare for it anyway._

From behind him, he heard someone emerge from under the makeshift shelters, a new soldier that probably came from one of the trenches further back. Clutching a can of bully beef in his dusty hand, the soldier cautiously glanced around.

"What are you doing with that can, mate?" Jett asked, turning around to face the new person.

"I heard from some of the lads in the back that if you throw the Mehmets* a can of bully beef, they will give you dates." he said.

"They're more likely to give us artillery fire than dates." muttered the other soldier despondently.

 _Who has been throwing bully beef to the Turks in the first place?_ Jett internally fumed, _We are fighting against the Turks and people are giving our food to them?_

"Don't do it," Jett warned, trying to hide his fear.

It was too late. The man hurled the can over the barrier, over no-man's-land, over the barbed wire of the Turkish trench and into the unknown. It clattered against something metal before falling into the opposing trench.

Instinctively, Jett grabbed the soldier who had thrown the can and dragged him under the canvas shelter and out of sight.

"What were you playing at, idiot!" Jett growled, "You're going to get us all killed!" The soldier flinched at the tone that the usually cheery man was using.

"Wait, Jett," another soldier interrupted, "Listen. They don't sound angry at all."

The trench silenced in anticipation. Soft muttering and the shuffling of feet chipped away at the silence like a dull knife on glass. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle screeched.

After what felt like hours, a Turkish soldier finally peeped over the edge of the trenches and waved to them. He did not seem like he was angry or upset, merely hesitant.

"Hello Johnnies." He called. All of the soldiers looked to Jett for guidance, but Jett had no way to respond.

"Here, have this." With that, he threw something over to the Australian side.

The object landed squarely on the lap of the sandbag layer, who froze in shock.

"...What is it?" Jett asked hesitantly, looking to the young soldier and back to the can thrower, who avoided his glance.

"It's... fruit," he sighed, a smile creeping onto his face. "Turns out he was right about the dates."

"Yeah," Jett replied, glancing at the can thrower with a mixture of disdain and respect, "For once."

* * *

 ***'Mehmet' was were name given to collectively refer to the Turks- 'Johnny' is the Australian equivalent.**

 **Author's Note: This story was inspired by an account by Private Henry Barnes in the 4** **th** **Australian Brigade made in 1915, which I found in a book called 'Lest We Forget: Forgotten Voices from 1914-1945 by Max Arthur. It described a particular part of the Gallipoli from that was so close that the Turks and Australians would exchange bully beef and dates.**

 **This was by no means true for all of the Gallipoli campaign. In the other trenches, the soldiers were fighting day and night.**

 **The reason I wrote about this was because it stood out to me as a story and thought it would be interesting. I may write an Eastern front story soon- or perhaps I will focus on the home front of somewhere.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Hello again, readers! I have returned from my unexpected hiatus to give you a rather late chapter on Italy in 1915, which was probably influenced by Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms.**

 **I do apologise for the delay, a lot of things have been happening in my life- exams, debate competitions, expeditions and seemingly everything else. It doesn't help that I get really quite worried about deadlines and so writing this became a bit of a chore for a while, hence me avoiding it. But now that I have a newer outlook on this project, I think we'll be fine.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Twelve: From Ancient Grudge comes New Mutiny

 _ **The Isonzo Valley, 1915.**_

The first thing that Feliciano heard was not the bellowing of an irate officer, or the shriek of artillery. It was the impatient knocking on the door by his brother, Romano.

"Hey, brother! Wake up, I need to go soon!" the other Italian Nation called from outside.

At this, Feliciano snapped into action, clumsily sliding out of the bed onto the cold, bare floorboards. He hissed as his body stung and burned with the pain a recently received wound often has- this one being a piece of shrapnel that had somehow embed itself into his lower back, accompanied by varied cuts and bruises.

 _Ach, did I tear the bandage again? I hope it's not infected._

"I'm coming, just a minute!" he called, haphazardly throwing on the various itchy and frayed layers of his uniform. He opened the door.

"Took you long enough." Romano huffed, before noting his brother's unusual posture, "Anyway, I just wanted to say, well, I'll be under General Frugoni for the next battle, so..."

"Be careful and don't get captured while I'm gone!" Feliciano mimicked, "I know- you say that every time. You be careful too, please."

Romano scoffed, "Ha! Me, I am always careful! It's you that manages to get himself in all the scrapes." Feliciano raised an eyebrow, "Just last time, you got crushed by falling rocks. It's a wonder no one saw you heal yourself."

"Yes, but still..." Romano stopped, alert to the irregular footsteps that came from behind. Hazel eyes flickered to meet glassy-grey eyes, belonging to a well- groomed man, who looked to be In his thirties. Despite his well-kept attire, he leaned heavily on a pair of rusty ski poles, mainly due to his right leg- or rather, the lack of one.

"How are you feeling, young man?" he asked, "Are you ready to take on the Austrians again?"

Feliciano hesitated, biting his lip in thought.

On the one hand, he could tell that some things were not prepared enough. Though his men tried to hide it, the personification could practically smell the uncertainty in them. Quite a lot of them did not seem to be trained as well as some of the others. Only some had the proper equipment.

Despite all of this, Feliciano could not help feeling excited about the oncoming battle. It had been the first time in years that he had participated in an actual war, not just colonial warfare.

There was also a certain sense of satisfaction that he and his brother may be able to claim back some of the land taken from them in the Treaty of Vienna. He had been promised this and more by Britain and France.

He smiled brightly, "Yes, we just need to keep trying and we'll be fine."

"That's the spirit!" the man beamed.

The man pivoted himself to address Romano, whilst creating an unpleasant screech with the crude crutches.

"Your transport has arrived to take you to the general. This way, dear fellow." he explained, leading him slowly outside to where a car was parked, Feliciano not far behind him.

When they exited the dishevelled building that had doubled as a base, he was dazzled by the force of the light that bleached his surroundings. The mountains seemed to tower over the settlement like guards against the enemy on the other side. The sky was speckled with clouds, the occasional peek of sky or sunshine emerging from the mass of white and grey. The air, usually hinted with mountain flowers, was now mingled with the pungent aroma of sweat and metal.

First the equipment, then the human passengers were squeezed into the car. Romano got on last, helping the one-legged man up with an almighty shove before clambering in himself.

"You there, red head!" someone called, "The Duke wants to see you!"

Hurriedly, Feliciano waved the car off and dashed through the camp, weaving past crates and sandbags like a greyhound.

Around him, the fatigued men of the Italian Third Army went about their work, chatting amicably despite their conditions.

" _Things will be better next time, the Duke will make sure of that."_

" _Like Cadorna says, we must be willing to try in order to win this war- we have a numerical advantage!"_

" _Will anyone make it back alive?"_

%&%

Soon, Feliciano had made it into the officers' barracks. They were all gathered around a table, discussing something.

At once, Feliciano recognised the person with his back facing as the Duke. Neat blond hair peaked at the top of his head he wore a well-kept green uniform, without a speck of dust on it. The Italian personification could only stare in envy at the contrast between the man in front of him and his own, dishevelled auburn hair and torn uniform.

One of the other officers noticed Feliciano and politely tapped the Duke's shoulder.

"Your Grace." Feliciano said, bowing his head. The Duke frowned, examining him with piercing pale blue eyes.

"Ah, North Italy," he said, "There you are."

Perking up at the name, the officers surround the Duke sat up, nodding cordially to him and making the occasional comment referring to his less-than-typical appearance.

"With all due respect your Grace, you should not refer to me so freely." Feliciano cautioned, glancing around.

"Nonsense," the Duke replied, "It is with good spirit that I introduce you formally, for it will be greater encouragement for the officers that the entire nation is by their side."

Frowning, the Duke added in a lower voice, "I thought that you, as our Nation, would recall our protocol on your identity in war-times."

"It has been a long time since we had a proper war, sir." Feliciano explained, a tad sheepishly, "The years in secretive peace has made me forget."

"Well," the Duke concluded, with a soft laugh, "Let us hope that if you have forgotten anything else, you will remember it for the next battle."

"Do not worry, sir. I haven't forgotten anything important." Feliciano reassured.

"I say, you're a little different than I expected," one officer noted, examining Feliciano sceptically, "Aren't you a little young-looking to be the representation of a thousand year old culture?"

"Yes, I will admit that I appear too young for seemingly no reason, officer." Feliciano replied, "Before you ask, I don't know why I am this young or much else about my appearance for that matter. All of that is irrelevant." "Ah, so there are things about your existence that even you do not know about?" the officer inquired. "That is correct." Feliciano started, "Now..."

Suddenly, the earth shook as an explosion erupted from a nearby mountain. All turned to the source, panicked. The Duke looked to Feliciano, trying to hide his nervousness.

Understandingly, Feliciano nodded.

* * *

 **Author's Note: So, here is another historical figure- Duke** **Emmanuel Philibert Aosta. I could not find much on his personality, but from what I can see, he was a very competent general. The blue eyes were from the portrait on the Wikipedia page- though I can say that that I the only thing I really used Wikipedia for.** **I am not sure what will be the focus of the next chapter- it is likely to be either based on espionage, South Africa, naval battles or Japan- perhaps all four if there was such an incident.**

 **Until next time,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: This took longer than expected, but here it is, the next instalment! This chapter focuses on Japan, just after the Twenty-One Demands were agreed upon between Japan and China. It was a result of the Siege of Tsingtao and allowed the Japanese to have access to Chinese waters and use Tsingtao (as well as areas in China) for resources.**

 **On another note, can you believe it has been over a year since I wrote the first chapter? Thank you for your support through this time.**

 **Thank you for reading,**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: The Worst Thing for a Nation at War

 _Tokyo, August 1915._

If a man from 100 years ago walked through the streets of Tokyo in 1915, it would be like stepping into a foreign country. Ever since the Meiji Restoration, Japan had been undergoing a significant change from isolated feudal society to a flourishing 20th century democracy.

For Kiku Honda, it was a strange yet exciting experience. While a small part of him wished to return to the calm times that Commodore Perry had shattered with the arrival of his black ships in 1853, he also relished the advances that propelled his people forward to a new age of prosperity. There was a sense of optimism in the air that maintained that Japan would soon be a prosperous nation like Britain and Germany.

From his vantage point on a bench near the parliament building, he observed every person that passed him, waiting. The people that weaved in and out of the streets were mostly men, clad in Western-style suits and bowler hats. Their leather spats clicked with every step.

 _The Prime Minister he should be out soon,_ Kiku thought, _He said he would be here around this time._

Sure enough, out of the building's glossy black doors came the Prime Minister of Japan, Shigenobu Ōkuma. He was well into his seventies, with a ponderous frown etched onto his face. He was sharply-dressed and holding a cane for support as he made his way down the steps.

Like Kiku, he was fascinated by Western science and culture, reforming several parts of the government to fit the Western standard. Despite his age, he remained alert and firm, with the same steely resolve that he had when he last held the position of Prime Minister.

Automatically, Kiku bowed.

"Hello, Honda-san." Ōkuma greeted, "Would you like to go somewhere more private?"

"If you don't mind, Ōkuma-sama."

Kiku followed him around the side of the building to a small garden. A large cherry tree hung over the area, its flowers blanketing the ground with pale pink petals. When Kiku spotted Ōkuma testing the ground with his cane, he made a move to assist the man, but was soon stopped.

"So, Honda-san," Ōkuma asked, "What was it like in Tsingtao? From what I have gathered, the Chinese have agreed to our demands. Do you think they will be likely to try and strike back?"

 _Yao certainly made his anger clear when he heard my demands._

"I wouldn't exactly doubt it," Kiku answered, "But while they were clearly unhappy with the deal, neither the Chinese or the Germans would risk fighting our men to get their land back. Our men are cleaning out the forts now."

"Good," Ōkuma said, "While you've been sorting things out over there, people have been accusing the Home Minister of bribing the Lower House into letting me spend more on the military."

Kiku blinked, surprised at the statement. "Really?"

"Yes, and he's probably going to be arrested soon." Ōkuma sighed.

"I will admit I was a bit suspicious that they all agreed with your proposition so unanimously, but I never would have suspected..." Kiku trailed off, staring at the ground for a few seconds.

 _I wonder if it's always like this in Britain._

Meanwhile, Ōkuma was examining his pocket watch. Abruptly, he snapped it shut.

"I'm afraid I am needed elsewhere, Honda-san." he said, " But bfore you go, I want you to help on board one of the coastal defence ships, the Sagami. The crew could use your, expertise, shall we say. It leaves tomorrow at 5:00AM."

"I will be there, I promise. Goodbye, Prime Minister." Kiku replied, also exiting the garden.

%&%

Kiku breathed in the fresh sea air as he walked into the docks. The sun was hovering over the horizon, not quite high enough to bathe the city in blazing light. The dockyard was full of people, despite the early hour. Beggars wandered like ghosts; children darted from place to place and soldiers were dotted around, trying to maintain order.

Among the rows of numerous fishing vessels and occasional battered battleship was the IJN Tsukuba, standing regally above the others. This ship had served at Tsingtao and was one of the most famous of the fleet. From the handful of dock-workers milling around it, the ship was almost fully repaired from the damage it suffered during the siege.

Kiku admired the cruiser in silence, taking in its' stoic beauty.

"Is that you, Honda-san?" a voice inquired. Kiku turned to face what appeared to be the Sagami's captain. He had a stern demeanour that was vaguely familiar and spoke with obvious authority.

"Yes, Captain."

"You haven't changed a bit..." the captain murmured, before gesturing down the dock to a tall, white vessel with three steam funnels. Several men were already aboard, rushing around the deck.

"There is the Sagami, she'll be our home for however long we are needed. But of course you already know that." he explained as he walked towards the ship.

Upon closer inspection, Kiku sensed that the Sagami was slightly different from the other ships in his navy. There was something, he wasn't sure what, that was distinctly foreign about it.

"She's certainly impressive captain, but she isn't like the other Japanese ships," he commented, trying to find the politest way to ask: was she given to us by someone else?

"Yes, you see, she used to belong to the Russians. They called her Peresvet." the captain explained, his gruff voice softening slightly, "We captured her during the Russo-Japanese War and has stayed here ever since. I just hope the Russians don't reclaim her just yet."

 _Ah, that explains it. Still, she's a rather good-looking ship._

Kiku and the captain boarded in contemplative silence. At the sight of their commander, the sailors straightened up, observing the newcomer with curiosity.

"Men, this is Honda Kiku, a trusted sailor. He will be accompanying us by special order of the government and you will not question his authority, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" came the unanimous reply.

"Good, now back to work!" the captain barked, the softness vanishing. He then addressed a passing sailor who was carrying a basket of clucking chickens over his shoulder.

"You, escort Mr Honda to the Lieutenant's quarters."

"Yes sir," the soldier replied, setting the chickens in a tidy corner before taking Kiku's suitcase.

"This way, Honda-san." he muttered softly,trotting down the steps below deck. He checked over his shoulder to see if Kiku was still following him. Soon, they were at the Lieutenants' Quarters, where the man gave Kiku a curt nod, gave him his suitcase and disappeared above deck.

 _This will be my home for the next few months,_ Kiku reflected, _At least I will be useful here, well, more useful than on land, anyway._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **Ōkuma Shigenobu was quite an interesting man in my book, he did not belong to any of the clans that dominated Japanese politics since before the Meiji Restoration and yet he founded Waseda University and orchestrated the Twenty Five Demands. He abdicated in 1916 due to lack of support following the aforementioned Oura Scandal. (He used a cane because his right leg got blown off in 1889 during an attack by an ultra-nationalist group.)**

 **The IJN Sagami was given to the Japanese after the Russo-Japanese War. In March 1916, it was given back to the Russians and given its' old name. (By the way, nothing mentioned the name of the captain, so I had to improvise. If anyone knows about him, feel free to tell me.)**

 **As for the Tsukuba, it was part of fleet reviews in December 1915 and October 1916, which the current Emperor watched. Unfortunately, it exploded in Yokosuka on 14** ** **th**** **January 1917, killing 305 men.**

 **(Does anyone know if there is a specific suffix for addressing people like a Prime Minister? Or is '-sama' okay?)**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Anonymous Lily**


	14. Chapter 14

**EDIT: Hello there, this has been edited to let you know that despite my best efforts, I cannot continue with this story. But, I didn't want to just leave without saying a word, so here I am.**

 **I am thankful for all of the support I have received in the year I have been writing. I hope you guys have nice lives.**

 **By the way, if you are interested in carrying this on yourself, then feel free to message me about it. However, I am unsure of how fic adoption works exactly, so...**

 **Back to the (final) chapter!**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Here is the next chapter, starring Serbia this time!  
**

 **While my version of Serbia is somewhat inspired by the character in Noive's comic 1914 -which is still on Deviant Art if you want to read it- I have tried not to make him a copy of their version.**

 **It has been a long time since I have read the comic anyway, so I have based more of Teodor's character on what I found out about Serbia while I was researching this chapter.**

 **Also, I would like to thank the people that have reviewed this story- you are lovely and so helpful.**

 **Anyway, thank you for reading!**

 **~Anonymous Lily**

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: The Flowers of Belgrade

 _Belgrade, Serbia, October 1915._

In October 1915, the combined Austro-German force began its' second invasion of Serbia, lead by August von Mackensen, one of the most capable and talented Field Marshals of the German High Command. He had successfully led the armies into the outskirts of Belgrade, but had been halted, if only temporarily, by the resident army on the other side of the Danube.

It was on this foggy morning in October that Teodor Loncar sat, taking a moment of respite. Like the rest of the people in the city, he had not slept the previous nights, due to the relentless artillery attacks that had destroyed about half of their weapons and torn a hole in his already stressed defences. They were reduced to waiting in their own streets for the enemy.

He gave a quick glance to the man next to him, a postman in his thirties with a thick, unkempt moustache from which small clouds would appear with the rhythmic wheezing of his smoky lungs. Noticing that he was being watched, the man's eyes flickered upwards, warming at the sight of a familiar face.

"The odds really are against us, aren't they Teodor?"

There was nothing overly cynical in the way he said it, no desperate pleading. It had gotten to the stage where most, like his companion, had accepted the inevitable, however much they would rather it was not the case.

He sighed, "Yes, you could say that."

 _It's not enough that the Austrians and Germans are traipsing around on **my** land, but the Bulgarians decide to join in as well... _ Teodor ruminated. _It doesn't help that the only assistance I received from my allies were small groups and equipment that would not be useful. I appreciate it, but..._

"Serbia, I see you're still here." said a voice behind him. Recognising it instantly, Teodor whipped around to meet the calm face of Dragutin Gavrilovic.

He was a broad, stocky man that radiated an aura of indomitable spirit. He observed the hazy silhouettes of the once grand streets of Belgrade with dark, intelligent eyes, before focusing on Teodor's face.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked, trying to disguise his concern.

"Just a bit tired, that's all.," Teodor replied, "Just like everyone else here."

The general nodded, patting Teodor's shoulder. "You will feel better after you go to Mass, I have no doubt,"

He gestured to the line of soldiers and civilians alike entering the sturdy doors of the cathedral. Without a word, Teodor, Gavrilovic and the postman joined them.

%&%

The morning mist cleared with the coming of the afternoon, revealing the lines of soldiers obediently marching towards the café where they once would have sat and admired the view.

Rows upon rows of men, young and old poured onto the street, followed by those that refused to leave their beloved city. All waiting for their commander.

Teodor stood with them, clutching a poppy that he had taken from the flower shop on the street before.

 _Please, let us win. Let us survive._ He muttered as he tucked it into his collar, the red petals flattening against his chest.

At last, Gavrilovic entered the street.

"Soldiers, exactly at three o'clock, the enemy is to be crushed by your fierce charge, destroyed by your grenades and bayonets. The honour of Belgrade, our capital, must not be stained." He maintained his steady gaze, addressing every soldier standing in front of him.

"Soldiers! Heroes! The supreme command has erased our regiment from its records. Our regiment has been sacrificed for the honour of Belgrade and the Fatherland. Therefore, you no longer need to worry about your lives: they no longer exist." He glanced in the direction of the enemy.

"So, forward to glory!" Gavrilovic shouted, looking at last to Teodor, "For the King and the Fatherland! Long live the King, Long live Belgrade!"

With that, the remaining defenders of Belgrade charged, a fire of hope burning in their hearts. The opposing forces clashed as soon as they entered the Lower Town, descending into close-quartered combat.

Teodor didn't hesitate as first one, then two soldiers fell by his blade. In this moment in time, it was simply him against the enemy- a state of mind that once unnerved him, but now was second nature, as it was with every other Nation in this war.

 _They will not take me again without a fight, I must make sure of it._

However, the flow of enemies grew, irrespective of casualties. His soldiers, despite wounds and fatigue, kept pushing against their enemies.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Gavrilovic running towards him, unaware of an Austrian gun poking out from a nearby window.

He collapsed.

"Dragutin!" Teodor yelled, watching his only hope crumbling to the ground like a paper doll in the wind. He rushed to Gavrilovic's side, where the general crouched.

"We must retreat, now." he breathed. Teodor nodded before escorting his general away from the battleground.

"Serbians!" Teodor exclaimed, his voice growing hoarse, "Retreat!"

 **\+ Instead, they gave him a small flying squadron, a few torpedo boats and a cruiser, as well as 200 Russian soldiers.**

 **I have tried my best to stick to the events that happened from October 7th to October 9th. However, there isn't that much on google that is in detail, and I'm not sure where to start in terms of primary sources.**

 **Serbia fell on October 9th after two days of fighting- apparently, August von Mackensen was so impressed with his enemies, that they erected a monument in their name (I got that fact from Basta Balkana's article on Gavrilovic.)**

 **Despite his average origins as a tailor's son, Dragutin Gavrilovic was one of the most decorated officers of the Serbian army. Gavrilovic was wounded heavily at the end of the last battle- I think he was shot in his right leg and hand.**


End file.
